Learning Curve
by L'Estrade
Summary: This is the start of a series of little snippets of life, written about Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. Rated T, as may darken with age. Not all of them make sense, but Sherlock was never supposed to make sense to anyone but himself
1. Learning Curve

It had come as a shock at first, discovering the vast recesses of Sherlock's life, but now John Watson took it a day a time. Head today, quoting last month's obituary column off by heart tomorrow.

The first couple were deeply disconcerting to the point where John had actually had to go downstairs for some sweet tea and the sympathetic company of Mrs Hudson for an hour or two. First it was the apparent psychic abilities, {answers to questions John hadn't even begun to express suddenly pouring forth from between the detective's lips after 15 minutes of complete silence between the two} followed by the intimate knowledge of John's toiletry routine {'You need to change your moisturiser brand- this one just isn't working on your eczema'} to the complete ignorance of even the most basic English history facts {'What do you mean, who was Winston Churchill?'}

It hadn't been surprising either, a month later when the Blackberry that was permanently glued to Sherlock's person buzzed once and, with a slight grimace at the caller ID, Sherlock had began;

'Bonjour Maman, et comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?'

John had stared over the evening paper as Holmes continued the conversation in fluent French {'No Maman, j'ai pas parlé à grandmere Vernet'} idly flicking through a book on human anatomy as if nothing were out of the ordinary {'Vous ne pouvez pas répondre John, pas encore avant'} before switching to the newspaper swiped from Watson's grasp and then to plucking tunelessly at the violin in concentric circles of notes {'No Maman, j'ai été bon de Mycroft! Eh bien, il est allongé!'}

The call ended with a quiet but sincere goodbye from the detective and an almost sheepish expression as he hung up on his mother, wishing her goodnight before staring sightlessly out of the window. John shook himself and pulled himself out of his armchair with a soft grunt.

'Cup of tea?'


	2. Distractions

Timing was something else that it had taken a long time to grow accustomed to. With Sherlock, it was never something that stayed around for long.

The army had offered something new- something exciting to escape the monotony, endless circling boredom that tore him to the quick. But, even then there had been the hours of waiting for the next event, not daring to move even to stretch aching limbs because relief could occur any number of ways. A bullet was not the best of them.

But now, with Sherlock, time had no meaning anymore. Quite frequently there were days when John would come home from work to find Sherlock hadn't moved an inch from his seat, staring into nothing.

'Have you really just sat there all day?'

'Hmmm?' Sherlock would glance up from his reverie, eyes glazed. 'Did you get that coffee I asked for?'

There were of course other times when there was no time to stop and rest, or even eat- Sherlock seemed to be capable of working days on end without stopping. The doctor frequently had to catch the younger man and physically push him into feeding on something or catching an hour's sleep reminding himself that if he didn't stop him, no one would.

'Do you always insist on watching me eat?' Sherlock looked up from a bowl of watery ravioli hastily pushed in front of him, glowering petulantly at Watson and his already empty plate.

'Yes, Sherlock, I do- you need to eat! Haven't seen you touch a thing since you took this case'

'I feel like a child'. The dark haired man glanced across at a couple of workmen sat two tables down, hardhats resting on the table and a full English breakfast apiece. One coughed furiously spluttering as he thumped his chest repeatedly before bringing a mug of tea to his lips and took a tentative sip, wincing at the scalding heat. His friend continued to chew on his breakfast without looking up. 'Do you think we should tell that man he has bronchiolitis?'

'What?' John looked up from his paper and followed Sherlock's gaze. 'How can you tell?'

'He has cyanosis around his lips- look John, the discolouration? He's coughing rather badly, and wheezing too, but his colleague hasn't looked up from his food so it's safe to assume he's been doing that for quite some time and his friend's got used to it. The tissue he's daubing his brow with has spots of blood on it…look closer, three spots, do you see? There, he's been coughing up blood, and the sweat on his brow is unlikely to come from over-exertion since they were already seated when we came in, and you've been sat watching me force down this tasteless pap for the past 20 minutes'

Watson blinked and turned back to the detective. 'Eat up, Sherlock'

'But-'

'Eat!'


	3. The Woman

John was ashamed to admit that he was surprised when he first saw them. Even after all that time it had been a shock.

It was all Mycroft's fault, naturally. Sherlock had been more than a little unruly and his elder brother had clamped down with hideous efficiency- the silver edged invitations had arrived at 221B Baker St the very next morning on the first post with a barely-veiled threat on the side.

And so John had stood there awkwardly in a hired tuxedo that was a little too big and sipped at a glass of champagne that tasted far too sweet and insipid and leaned awkwardly against a pillar, wishing he were anywhere else, making small talk with people he didn't know and had no inclination to see ever again. He was twisting around to find Sherlock, longing to take advantage of the detective's rudeness and escape home back to a takeaway and some bad television, for the taste of Szechuan pork and egg fried rice instead of tasteless canapés…

And then he saw them- in the middle of the room, oblivious to the other couples on the floor turning to stare at them as they glided serenely across the expanse of marble, the electricity palpable with every move, every perfect step they made together. She was tall and elegant, her eyes flashing with something close to pure danger as she dogged his every step, the red silk of her gown curling and swirling around their legs binding them resolutely. He was luminous in his customary black suit, his slight smile playing with the corner of his mouth and that sociopath's charm, all of his features handsome and sharp, irises silver as he focused, not on her face, but a spot a little below her right ear where a single strand of mahogany hair curled against her neck in a way so enchanting that no formula on earth could decipher it. Whirling faster and faster across the floor, people moving to gape at the act of synchronicity played out, sparks flying and the expression of breathless triumph in the lopsided smile tugging at his lips. There was no love, no mutual affection or trifling inclination but…there. Just there.

Hours later, John found the detective laid out on the sofa in Baker Street, tie loosened around his neck, one single scarlet print on the alabaster skin.


	4. Materialism

That was another thing-the flat was always, always a mess.

Not only was Sherlock apparently prone to stealing John's possessions, it became evident very quickly he had a number of destructive tendencies too. As of last Monday, the detective owed him a pair of jeans {seat of them mysteriously cut out} several worn thriller novels that Holmes had deemed atrocious and promptly burned, a watch {inexplicably filled with water} and a bottle of cologne that for reasons unknown had exploded in the bathroom sink- causing an eye-watering stench of bergamot and neroli oil to sit oppressively over the flat until Sherlock trapped it in John's room.

There had been words about privacy between the two after that, not all of them quiet. The bathroom, however, remained neutral territory.

'Sherlock! What the hell is this?'

The detective turned from the laptop {John's of course} to the dripping man stood in the hall, wrapped only in a towel and quivering with barely concealed rage. 'What is what?'

'This!' He brandished a bottle of shampoo, thrusting it in Sherlock's hands. 'You've put shaving foam in my shampoo!'

'I haven't put anything in your shampoo' Sherlock said innocently, turning the plastic over in his hands.

John glared back 'You have- I've just ended up rubbing mousse into my scalp! What next- should I expect my face to be dandruff free and full of lustre?'

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes ''I haven't put anything in your shampoo. I put shaving cream in the shampoo bottle. Your shampoo, which smells awful by the way, remains untouched'.

'Why? Why did you do that, Sherlock-why?'

'Bored'

'Bored? I...I,..-you...eurgh!'

John stamped off leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. Seconds passed. Sherlock looked up, eyes widening and snapped his head to the spot where John had just been.

'Um...John?'

'What?' John's voice came muffled from the stairs.

'You-' A bang. Quiet groan. A roar of pain- stubbed toe probably. Silence. And then-

'SHERLOCK!'


	5. Triumph

History was something that was avoided, at all costs.

There was a tiny little picture in the possession of Mrs Hudson that marked a moment in Sherlock's past. A cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg, a sentimental story about the late Mr Hudson and suddenly the old woman was hobbling across the room and back again as quick as John had ever seen her. Box opened, a shuffle of papers and then a small Polaroid pushed into Watson's hands.

'Someone took that for me in Florida when my husband got in all that trouble. Deary me it was hot there- dripping all the time- couldn't breathe! But I do look good in that picture; had a nice tan.' Said the landlady, stirring the tea in endless circles.

It was blurry, a lightly tanned but worn Mrs Hudson stood smiling in the centre of shot with a background of palm trees and water behind her. The white skirt and jacket were flattering and smart, evidently bought for the court appearance, but the face was one of a woman a dozen years older, tired and sunken.

And there, in the corner of shot, Sherlock striding into the frame not paying any attention to the photographer at all. The skin was the same alabaster as it always was, but the curls brushed his jawline, the pale eyes were set deeper into his face, cheekbones sharper and more pronounced. The coat was gone, but the suit was still there, black trousers that seemed to accentuate his slenderness and an ice blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal patchless forearms.

But it was the look that bowled over; rapture painted across every feature in the pale pink and orange sunset, the news just about to spill from his lips as he beared down on the innocent photo opportunity, arrogance just flushing in two high blooms on his cheeks, something breathtaking in the intense little cleft between his brows where the epiphany had dawned.

It was a look John saw often. That did not detract from it potency.


	6. Calligraphy

It'd almost got to the point where Sherlock no longer registered as human in John's mind; he was something alien, cold and crystallised.

Fingers caressed the pen, gripped it and pulled it to the page, forming the letter in one smooth, flowing line, flicking out at the end before moving to create the next with a gentle hand.

It was something he was quite proud of; something he had always been proud of. It was the memories of being seven years old with a crop of sandy blonde hair and a quietly sunny disposition, only just tall enough to sit on the high stools in the library practising over and over on reams of paper until home time when John would trudge home, handwriting book tucked firmly under one arm. And then, one day in late November after several months of gruelling practice and calloused fingers, a beaming smile had graced the face of John Watson. He had snatched up the sheet of paper and dashed out of the room as quickly as his legs could carry him to thrust it proudly into his mother's hands and hear her praise at the precise little lines and squiggles.

The novelty of joined up handwriting had disappeared soon after, but even in the clinical sterility of Bart's wards or the heat and dust of Afghanistan it had given him a small shot of pride to see the strong clear script he had worked so hard to achieve.

So it had been a warm smugness that curled up in his chest when he caught first sight of Sherlock's scrawled longhand that splattered across the page like a paraplegic spider. It could have been from a desire to do things quickly, but John had often caught the younger man peeking a glance across the tabletop at his paperwork, a small crease forming between the brows as he took in the handwriting.

'Neat.'

'Hmmm?' John pretended to look up as if puzzled.

'Your handwriting- very neat. Excessively so. You evidently practised a lot when you were a child, but you previously mentioned you weren't very academic, so it must have been something you worked particularly hard at. You also take great pride in it- something no average child ever would, so it's a source of pleasure to you. You were dyslexic when you were younger weren't you?'

The happy little feeling popped suddenly and fell. Watson looked down angrily, blinking at the page. Holmes turned back to his laptop, smiling slightly.

Take page. Screw it up. Walk away.

With Sherlock, you could never win.


	7. Shots

An explosion. Shots ringing out. Yells and a flurry of combat uniform, khaki and beige, a deep groan and a bright spurt of blood. Scrabbling for fresh gloves and something to stop the screams, the crashes as the tray gets knocked over in the rush, curses and furious discussion. A lifetime in a minute and the machine screams like the dead of night, the heat rushes in as the tent flaps open and the shots sound out again, faster and faster and the people yell his name as he delves deeper, to staunch the flow as the redness pours out...and out and out and...

He wakes with a start. The sheets wrinkle around him in a swathe and John pants for the memories and the sounds, as if the sanctuary of his attic room had been invaded.

Beneath his veins, blood runs like lightning, pounding through his ears like gunfire.

The shame wrinkles up slowly inside. The boy's face as it contorted in pain was something that lived on the inside of his eyelids in the waking hours, when the night was darkest. Grin and bear it, John, grin and bear it.

Contemplates the hours thinking of the heat and the blood spilling and the endless wind that constantly rocked the tents and howled in the corridors.

And then he hears it. A single chord in the aching, waking silence. Tuneless and wailing, as Sherlock tortures the poor instrument half to death, footsteps echoing his strides across the living room floor. Someone else lost.

Watson gets up and walks to the stairs, and down to where Sherlock rages.


	8. Champagne

Mycroft tutted at the young rookie dripping over the new ambassador and turned back to his PA who was tapping away furiously at her Blackberry. 'Keep an eye on Smith, we wouldn't want anyone slipping over on him now, would we?'

'Yes sir'.

'And could you pin down His Excellency's schedule for tomorrow?' Holmes indicated towards the disgruntled diplomat attempting to disentangle himself from his preening entourage.

'Already done, sir'.

'Thank you. Go and...Keep your ears open. I want to hear everything.' Mycroft's assistant turned on her not unimpressive stilettos and stalked towards the lounge drawing admiring glances from the valets and waiters lined up like toy soldiers.

Holmes pulled his organiser out of his breast pocket and squinted at the screen. One new message from Sherlock.

Found the Bruce-Partington plans. Do your own dirty work next time. SH

Mycroft sighed and saved the message to his 'To do' folder. Another new message, this time from John Watson.

John Watson. The new-found variable in Sherlock's life. He had certainly been most useful in affairs, but had still managed to hold his own against the all-encompassing presence that was Sherlock, perhaps even moulded the infuriating, intransigent man into something halfway human. There was no denying that the doctor was an angel in disguise, albeit an unwitting one. Sherlock's saviour.

Sherlock's got the memory stick you asked for the future brother in law stole it. Could you send someone to pick it up in the morning? John

Polite too, despite the chip on his shoulder. Impressive.

'Sir? Would you like a glass of champagne?'

Mycroft looked up. Young, 23 or 24, one child under 24 months, not married. Wearing contact lenses, unnaturally blonde hair, too much make-up to disguise a bad case of acne, been crying recently, probably due to her abusive boyfriend, looked nervous as she stared over the tray she balanced.

A smile to reassure. 'No thank you- allergic'.

The waitress turned away and brandished her tray of flutes at the drunken politician holding up the pedestal opposite. Somewhere across the room, two bankers were snorting loudly into their canapés as their odious wives looked on and clutched at their tiny handbags, and a journalist was scribbling furiously into her notebook as the ambassador began to make a speech about the situation in the Middle East. The room droned.

Phone buzzed once in the pocket of his silk jacket and a second later Homes' PA appeared at his shoulder, fingers moving like lightening across her phone. Phone vibrated in again and Mycroft felt a slight shot of concern as he glanced once at the screen.

Sherlock's in trouble. Again.


	9. Nicotine

It had been too long. The thin paper roll of toxins sat too happily, too comfortably in my hand, like an old friend. I had been a fool to think I could do without it, a damned fool.

The happy park scene in me contrasted nicely with my inward bitterness and the beast inside glowered at the children screaming hysterically on the roundabout and the mothers flustering after them like startled chickens. There were black rain clouds gathering on the horizon, but not one of them seemed to have noticed them- too preoccupied preventing their children from eating dirt or hitting their pitiful little heads off the tarmac.

Heaven forbid.

If John could see me now….well, he would be sure to throw a hissy fit when he smelt the smoke on my jacket when I got back home. The man had the nose of a bloodhound. It was really quite impressive for a normal person.

But he wasn't a normal person was he?

I had spent so long in solitude, elevated above the masses by my own selfish inclination and the relentless desire to put the last piece of the puzzle in place that I had forgotten what it was like to see beauty in someone so ordinary, so unassuming. He was extraordinary underneath it all.

Where he was kind, honest and passionate inside, a serpent coiled somewhere between my spine and my collarbone underneath my shirt and smirked as the lesser mortals blundered around the city seeing only streets and shops and cars. It smiled a wide, shining grin as I inhaled the smoke, blowing a ring out between my teeth and hissed in satisfaction.

It's back.


	10. Chase

'Run John!'

Yes, John, run. Run, because stopping is like admitting defeat. Because stopping is like knowing that you didn't do the best you could for the nameless, faceless soldier who screamed in pain beneath your rubber hands. Because running means being left behind, because...well, there's no better feeling than adrenaline gushing through your veins and the Browning turning restless in your gripping hands, Sherlock flushed and grinning at your side as he focuses in on his prey and sprints in for the take.

Smile, because it's what keeps you going- the chase

'Keep breathing. Focus, John. Faster, come on. Pace yourself...one, two, one, two...not much further now, it's not so far to go. Come on, John...John...'

The voice is not his. Rather, it comes from somewhere else.

You saw the pale eyes widening, saw the red dots as they caressed wool and alabaster and tasted the tiniest drop of fear that diffused from Sherlock's cracking demeanour. And it scared you more than Jim's threats or professional mockery, if you felt it at all.

'Focus, John'.

Run, because Moriarty is coming. Because the heat is on your back and you can feel it coming quicker now over the noise that deafens like a crescendo in your ears, the shots that splinter suddenly in the air around you, the adrenaline catching alight in your veins as you're pushing forwards...

Run John. Sherlock needs you now.


	11. Jambalaya

The flat smelt of smoke. Again. Sherlock was stretching John's patience and the durability of the walls while he was at it. The lack of a case echoed with every gunshot.

The groceries having been obliterated by one of Sherlock's little experiments, John had ventured out into the February cold to brave the wrath of the chip and pin machine for some solace from the constant sarcasm and unidentified sticky substance that was pervading the upstairs landing and seemed to be immune to all cleaning products. The fresh air was, after all, exactly what the doctor ordered.

Even after that, Sherlock still managed to haunt John as he strolled down Baker Street. The debate on the preferred Chinese restaurant from the night before continued all the way to the supermarket (Sherlock put the most merit in the Golden Dragon and it's placement of the door handle, whereas John preferred one that didn't deliver an acrobatic Chinese assassin instead of Chicken Chow Mein). Standing in front of the chiller cabinets in the prepared food section he heard;

'Don't get the lasagne again- remember how vile it was last time? Heaven alone knows what it was they called beef mince'

Hesitation for a second, and then John replaced the packet back on the shelf, and picked up

Jambalaya instead, shaking away the doubts. The same voice followed the doctor round the entire store, commenting on everything.

'Should we tell that woman that she's gay, or do you suppose she's just hiding it?'

'You might need to get some more bread, John. I might have used the rest of it up...'

'Pick up some writing paper, the stuff we have at the flat is far too thin'.

His fingers brushed on a six pack of foreign import lager on offer and then he retracted them as quickly as if he'd been burned. 'You can drink beer of you want to John, you don't have to abstain because of your sister' came the imperious voice from behind John's shoulder. He shook it off and reached instead for several packs of turquoise nicotine patches in retaliation.

The voice groaned, out of satisfaction or frustration, it was hard to tell. It stayed quiet after that.

Mrs Hudson gave John one of her patented harassed looks as he started on the stairs with the plastic bags ripping holes in his hands.

'He's been a bit testy. It's that time of the month' she whispered conspiratorially wringing her hands.

John gave a wry chuckle and continued upwards, avoiding the pile of newspapers and a porcelain elephant inexplicably strewn on the landing. The scene that met him was one of complete devastation. This was not a surprise.

And then the voice came from before.


	12. Childhood

He was eight when he left first for school. His expensive grey flannel shorts engulfing his scrawny knees, a little tin workbox and leather roll of instruments grasped in his hand as he clambered out of the car. His solemn face stared up at the imposing building looming in front of him was a pale circle in the grim November landscape and he screwed up his fist in determination.

He walked through the doors after saying goodbye to Mother, inhaling the smell of expensive eau de parfum and musk that clung to her coat as she enveloped him in a rare hug, wondering why she was crying and whether he should be too. Her crimson mouth had been quivering as she told him to be good and behave himself.

The boys turned to stare at him as he passed, unashamedly weighing him up. He gave them one long glance, smiling inwardly as they flinched at the ghost drifting up the stairs towards a half hearted welcome.

Even the housekeeper, jolly and rotund purely by profession felt a faint stab in her warm heart when she brought the little boy up to his room, and wondered whether the skinny fledgling she must take under her wing would have faired better with a little more time in the nest.

He was not here by chance. Such talents, they said, could not go unheeded, and the youngest Holmes was quickly snapped up to take his place beside his brother, already preening and proud as Head Boy and set for the towering spires of Oxford, a full three years early. Mycroft would do his Grandfather proud, everyone said so. Mummy and Daddy hoped that he would follow him, hoped that he would stay out of trouble long enough to show his raw and unrefined talent and secure his place in the world.

His parents had not given him a feather lined nest in which he could have grown up. Father, something important in the City had featured very little in day to day life but for the occasional weekend at home and holidays on the continent with Grandmére in Bordeaux. His wife, a happy and accomplished woman, fond of the opera and Jules Verne had been shackled to the empty house in Belgravia, and her quiet wild eyed youngest, birdlike and intense with long fingers and a sharp, angular face. She had tried her best, but nothing could dispel the fear that the world, so loving of her husband and Mycroft, her golden boy, wouldn't understand Sherlock.

He went through school with the weight of fear and expectation on his shoulders and, to everyone's surprise, tolerated it well enough. The bruises went down after a while and the pranks got less and less vindictive until they were so predictable he barely noticed them. The teachers were nice enough, the Matron patched him up after every bout without too many questions and Mycroft was kept far enough away that Sherlock was not tainted by his influence or his sneers in the corridor. Sherlock's grades were off the scale, his gifts respected and hated by all, his discrepancies easily covered up by sheer quick wittedness and the ability to pull a face that would make angels look guilty.

He was hated and feared, but this no longer bothered him at all.


	13. Adler

For Feej

It was the woman.

She sat straight backed in the armchair, politely sipping at a porcelain teacup that had mysteriously appeared in her hands. Opposite her, Holmes sat almost squirming in his chair, fingers plucking restlessly at his violin as if hoping it would offer some salvation. John had never seen him in so much discomfort.

It was morning. John should have been up hours before but a busy work schedule had assured him a fit of fatigue worthy of a Saturday morning lie-in and as such he hadn't been around to hear Sherlock get up or the mysterious woman now entrancing him enter their territory.

He turned his attention to the stranger in the chair. He couldn't see much of her from his vantage point on the stairs, but a mass of brunette curls and ivory skin that disappeared beneath a rather unusual crimson silk waistcoat and a simple white shirt. Leather boots too, feet placed together like a debutante. John shook his head internally; he was beginning to think like Sherlock.

They were talking in low, hushed voices; John could only make out her soft voice interspersed with what could only be Sherlock's interjections, but unusually Watson couldn't hear the detective's sardonic tones, though he was staring back at the occupant of the other chair suspiciously, still fingers flittering across the frets on his Stradivarius with a distant demeanour, a loud harsh sauntille of notes without issue. He frowned slightly, his brow crumpling.

John pondered before noisily walking downstairs, making sure that both of them heard his pretend descent. Sherlock barely looked up to acknowledge his presence, but continued to curl in his chair like a petulant child, pensive and awkward in the light of the woman who had so suddenly unlaced him. Turning away he scraped the bow across his beloved violin, pulling tuneless notes from its belly each urgent and confusing as they ran over each other above his distressed demeanour.

It was with a worrying shudder that the doctor realised that he was feeling rather sorry for his companion. His instinct to protect, so perfectly honed in Afghanistan, worried itself around Sherlock's skeletal form.

John's attention was drawn away from his friend to the woman, who stood, suddenly and offered a gloved hand and a dazzling smile. 'Dr Watson, I presume?'

John blinked. 'Uh...y-yes. That's me'. He took the proffered fingers, ignoring the curious instinct he had to kiss it, and the ghostly eyes of Sherlock which had moved to fix resolutely on the two of them. 'And you are...?'

The woman raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. 'You mean Sherlock hasn't told you?' She turned to face the man in question who, with a violent twist turned back to the two others, arms thrown down to the violin that dropped to his lap, and expression tainted with uncertainty. John flinched at the face that was so out of character and context that he couldn't help but feel shocked. He had never seen anything akin to nervousness anywhere near Holmes before.

'You sly fox' she laughed in a high, clear voice, the curls around her face bouncing. John tried not to notice just how very lovely she was.

'My name is Irene Adler. I'm...an old friend' she said with a smirk, sharp green eyes sliding to set on Sherlock, who met her gaze with something close to an embarrassed look, words not spoken passing from one to the other. There was that feeling, again, of the chase in which one of them was winning, but neither were losing and John, forever on the outside, watching as they destroyed and created each other inch by inch. The light that came in from the still cracked windows illuminated them momentarily and then they were dancing again across that floor, whirling and gliding in unison with the sparks that flickered with every dangerous turn of her poisoner's throat, and every sociopath's step he took to follow her. The chase that wasn't.

She had him on edge, despite the synchronicity. No mean feat.

Sherlock's greatest threat it seemed, was a woman.

The woman.


	14. Cigarette

It sits between his long digits snugly, almost too happily. Sherlock scowls at it, knowing what John would say if the neat little soldier could see him now. Probably throw a fit again, like the time he found that needle and jumped to the worst without a moment's consideration. As stupid as the others.

He brings it to his lips, hands almost shaking in anticipation as he caresses it and takes a long drag, letting the slithers move in unison down his spine. The oppressive weight, so constantly heavy, rolls away slowly with every shimmering particle of smoke that coils upwards blinking into the ether. He blows out a little at a time, letting the smoke whisper over his parted bottom lip and snake away expertly. It is an old habit.

Minutes pass. He reaches again for another, and then another, not caring about the empty carton that blows away on the crude wind or the ash that falls like snow into his lap. Legs barely registering their protests carry him to the filthy off-license around the corner and sought out another five cartons before sweeping him back to his bench in the shade without waiting for the change from a fifty. The degenerate gapes at the note burning away in her sweaty palm as he strides away with his drugs very firmly gripped in leather talons. Money for nothing.

He consumes them, marvelling as he always has at the healing power it has as it wipes away Mycroft's hounding, the military man and The Woman from New Jersey. They disappear into the air to become nothing but the hallucinated side effects of brilliance.

They are nothing. Nothing!


	15. Fourteen

'Fourteen'

'Fourteen. Fourteen?'

'Yes, John. Number that comes in between thirteen and fifteen.'

'I can't believe you could be so stupid! Fourteen!'

Sherlock looked up from the spot on the wall that was garnering his scrutiny and clicked in annoyance, folding away his hands to rest his chin just so on his fingers. 'Will you stop saying that? I know what number it was'

'You're unbelievable!'

Sherlock let his palest pales rake over John's countenance, weighing up the fury that seemed so very out of place on the man's face. His eyebrows, usually set in disapproval were rapidly disappearing into his crop of sandy hair and his brow was wrinkled into stony crags that marred the skin.

Ignore the curious urge to smooth them away with your fingers, Sherlock. Remember you're only human.

Focus.

'...-as if you could do that. Here! Of all places Sherlock! You should know better than to do it here, with Mycroft watching us every waking hour!' John was continuing to rant away, hands waving in frustration though he must be aware that the detective was no longer listening. Thank goodness for John. There was something endearing about his desperate, burning and above all misplaced competence. It was all rather adorable really.

'Are you even listening to me?' Watson, finally cottoning on rounded on the younger man like a tigress, almost spitting in his anger as he tried to hide...something.

Ah, there it was. Fear.

Sherlock raised his chin an inch and fixed him with an oddly submissive look trying not to sigh and seem obstinate. 'Yes, John'.

'Do you even care a little about what you've done?'

Holmes glanced out of the window and said the first truthful thing he'd said in a long time.

'No'.


	16. Dusk

The twilight was oddly soothing, even if Sherlock had to admit that he didn't understand how. The sky, painted peach and gold was rather pretty in an obscure way and the breeze that drifted through the casement windows was remedial for the oppressive heat.

It was hot, maddeningly so. It was the kind of heat that left you dry and gasping for a breath of fresh air, carved you inside out and choked you. A halcyon death. The dark wallpaper increased the heat; the prickle of the day's sun worked like incense and smothered the senses, camomile and heady lemon blossom that made the air heavy and left them panting.

Across the room, Watson sighed as he sat slumped in his armchair, shirt unbuttoned and idly fanning himself with yesterday's paper. Sherlock could see from his glazed expression that he was thinking about the heat of Afghanistan. Best to disturb him in a minute before those thoughts become too plunged in crimson red.

Downstairs the sounds of Mrs Hudson discussing the weather with one of her neighbours permeated up through the floorboards. Every now and again the clink of glasses of sickly iced tea broke the drone and they would screech with laughter.

Sherlock continued to gaze out of the window, watching the people outside meandering down the road, bone-weary as the evening heat drained them of all their energy. John gradually sinks into sleep in the chair, sweat beading across his forehead even while he slumbered. The sky sinks into slowly into inky redness and the first stars blink silver like diamonds in the depths. Beautiful.

Planets and stars weren't anything special. So intransigent. If only they'd choose to do something interesting.

Of course John found them fascinating. A practical man, a soldier no less, with his hands in the bodies of the sick and the weak, his head in the game and his eyes on the stars. Trying to explain the appeal to Sherlock he'd been animated and smiled and gestured, using his hands to show the variations in matter that was all the difference in space. His earnestness had been deeply amusing.

The night continued to fall into oblivion and the detective became petrified in his statue by the window, a hard black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the head turned half around in thought deep inside the extraordinary head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the feature. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes.

Only a single pearl of perspiration beaded across his forehead to mar the ivory effigy.

There is nothing between except space; millions of miles of empty space. But it is breaking, fragmenting into a thousand bright pieces of broken glass. Before long we will be able to reach out hands between the gaps and touch fingers for the first time since the world dawned.  



	17. Betrayal

It wasn't just rage anymore; it was a biting, clawing thing that ripped through flesh and blood and heartstrings. He felt it bubble and swell through his veins like wildfire, oozing through his chest cavity, scalding him, heating to an inferno as it passed through the chasm behind his ribs. Heartless, the bastard, the fool. The fooled.

It was the fire that heated from within and boiled over slowly, breathlessly as it crawled its way up your throat and burned you inside out, head with the crystallised mind pounding so hard it might just burst with the crimson effort. Fists closed into perfect marble claws, eyeballs painted with the very image of betrayal. It intensified beneath ivory skin.

The detective sat seething in the dark. The night washed over him in inky depths, but the beast that coiled over and over inside wrapped him in it and drew him out prostrate on the floor, drawing him in and pulling him out in howling aches. On the floor above, the soldier, with all his peaceful intentions and protective instincts slumbered on clueless. He had moved a little when the shadow slipped in lightfingered, mumbling in his sleep as Sherlock plotted and schemed destruction with the Browning filched from his locked bedroom drawer.

They would die the both of them! He would watch them burn, him the first. He would make sure his revenge was exacted. Clear Moriarty off the face of London in one fair swoop.

She would suffer for her silk, and viper green eyes and luminosity, the enchantress with a face a man might die for sat in the back of Moriarty's car as they drove away. Leaving him, again.

He had seen her betrayal, checked it with a surgical preciseness, checked over and over in the childish hope it might not be true. She must have run straight from his bed, been plotting it as they lay there in allegiance.

She would pay for it now. Jim first, The Woman afterwards.


	18. Hannibal

'Thomas Harris?'

'Hmmm?' The detective looked up from the novel cradled in his softened talons and focused on his flatmate, watching him with his own now cold mug of tea.

It was a book that took dog-earedness to a whole new level, and was as abused as all of the other books that washed like a sea over every surface in 221B, but was a number of a very select few books that lived on Sherlock's bedside table and had an odd kind of reverence to it .

Needless to say the other favoured books were all obscure choices; an ancient copy of Gray's

Anatomy of the Human Body, a book on philosophy by Friedrich Nietzsche, several notebooks on Jack the Ripper and a biography of Maria Callas, but the horror novel perched on top was a surprise to John.

'Hannibal Lector? Wouldn't have thought fiction was your type of thing'

Sherlock pursed his lips as if pondering a deep trail of thought and stared off into space considering this. John tried not to notice that underneath the ashen pale of the double curve of his lips was a shock of cherry red and pretended to be looking somewhere else.

He had found himself doing that a lot lately; it was something that was laying heavily on his mind. He hadn't been sure to begin with, but there was some change in Sherlock's demeanour, as if the scathing North wind that powered the internal chaos of the detective had somehow slightly altered. It was an almost imperceptible distortion that would have gone unnoticed by anyone except John; such close quarters and over-exposure to Sherlock had left him with a begrudging camaraderie and sensitivity to the ever changing moods Holmes was susceptible to.

John had no idea how it could have come about; away to deal with Harry for a weekend Holmes had been left to his own devices and a set of post-its reminding him to eat. Upon John's arrival, he had virtually sprinted back to Baker Street, barked at Mrs Hudson and launched himself up the stairs in the blackest of moods and ensconced himself in his armchair without a word of explanation, not moving until after the soldier had retired to bed, coming down in the morning to find Sherlock gone and the gun from his bedside drawer disappeared with him.

For the first day or two, he had revelled in the emptiness, getting on with all the cleaning that the detective usually made impossible and enjoying a rare evening in with Sarah but when, after three days of no Holmes and no clues as to where he could be, concern had begun to set in. Lestrade hadn't heard from him for the best part of a week, Miss Hooper flustered about and admitted she hadn't seen him since their last case, and when eventually he was put through to Mycroft, the elder Holmes said that none of their agents could keep tabs on him for more than a couple of minutes at a time but he definitely hadn't left the country. His voice had sounded hard, edged with something close to worry.

He had returned sometime later that night; John didn't hear when. He said nothing about where he'd been, and didn't explain the rips in his jacket or the bruises that were blossoming like black flowers across his ribs, visible even through his shirt.

After that he had settled into a sort of dream-like quality that Watson would never have thought anyone so predatory would have been capable of. He was up and dressed not long after dawn and stayed within the four walls of 221B until long after dusk when they went on long walks in the chill autumn air. His Blackberry remained silent and laptop was left untouched on the desk. He hadn't remembered to mock John's intellect for days, and even Anderson was spared a vicious retort as he strode past him towards the spread-eagled body of an almost-manslaughter. There was a certain serenity he had enveloped around him like a second skin and was as baffling as his usually chaotic behaviour.

'I appreciate the character' came the soft voice.

'I'm sorry?' John shook himself out of his reverie and re-focused on Sherlock. 'You appreciate the character of a serial killing psychopath with a taste for human flesh?'

He caught himself then, remembering Sally Donovan's words and the man in front of him. 'Of course, stupid question.' While the comparison was springing to mind, a small part of his brain wondered if Hannibal Lector wasn't somehow based on Sherlock or vice versa. He did like his steaks rare...

Sherlock stared back at him, obviously baffled. Watson relented.

'Would Hannibal like a cup of tea?'


	19. Sidney Sussex

It was the times that Sherlock had grown to hate more even than school.

They were sat at opposite points of a very long axis, which being ridiculous made the passing of food incredibly difficult and conversation had to be held at bleating pitch in order to be heard, but apparently even the house of The Rt. Hon. Holmes Senior had signed up to the idea. Although, with the exception of Mycroft they all ate very little, so there wasn't very much to pass.

Sherlock picked apathetically at his food, foot tapping impatiently against the floor, longing to run to the door, just run, out and across the pristine lawns, into an ocean of space and away...

His father, upright and gruff in his polished shoes and shiny suit said little as he compulsively pushed his knife and fork together at precisely 6 'o' clock of his plate. Pale, keen eyes looked down the table, unfathomable as he regarded his offspring. He had said nothing in the car, oppressive silence drowning the youngest Holmes as he clutched his roll of instruments as if for a lifeline. His father had his fear, and contempt.

Mrs Holmes was merrily discussing something with Mycroft, twenty-two and preening in his Savile Row silk, talking with the same reserved tones as his father, cool and collected, already middle aged in his ways and turns. Sherlock remembered his crying for Mother and hated him for the pretence of adulthood now, leaving the runt of the litter to the wolves.

'And how is Oxford darling?'

'Oh, it's going perfectly Mother. I've been offered a job down in London after the next term finishes'.

'Oh, that's wonderful Mycroft. We really are so proud of you.'

Mother. She still smelt of violet soap, expensive Parisian eau de parfum and her favourite apricot yoghurt. She still had to brush invisible lint from Sherlock's lapel whenever she waved him off to school again, her mouth trying not to quiver as he failed to hold her goodbye. Idly, he wondered how she'd react if she could see the scars on his arms, crawling across the pale skin of his forearms and up to his shoulders where they blossomed into bruises…

She laughed at an un-funny joke that Mycroft was hap-hazardly spouting into some uninteresting anecdote and he felt a rush of resentment. Her simple laughter offended, shaking a little in her seat, hooting with exuberant gulps of enjoyment and Sherlock felt a rush of anger at her crude bucolic sense of humour, wanting her to be vicious and sophisticated as she was with him and condemning her for her crassness, finding nothing he could possibly want in the woman.

It had come as a shock to find himself several inches taller than her, and she had strained to pat his arm in greeting. He stared uncomprehendingly at her now, fading like the petals of wild roses at fall. He had always thought of her as luminous, vivacious; now the raven locks at her neck were coming uncurled with perspiration, the beloved Russian Red lipstick smudged slightly into the lines gathering at the corner of her mouth, dark shadows creeping under her eyes as age unpicked her.

A voice cut in. Mycroft's, high, pompous with authority.

'I still think Oxford is by far the best choice for you, Sherlock. There's so much to entertain there, and there really are the most solid fellows'.

Attention swivelled back to Sherlock, glaring into his cabbage, curls dancing in disgust. 'We do really need to think about where you're going to end up, sweetie'.

A foregone conclusion. He would be sent where he was told.

The pack muttered their assent, littlest brother feeling pure revulsion in his throat as he turned back to his plate. Rebel, Sherlock. Take the double, the line, the cigarette...

'I was thinking about Cambridge, actually.'

The pack stopped, looked at him in surprise. He smiled inwardly, viciously.


End file.
